


Making Love on the Mountain

by queeniegalore



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Idiots in Love, Lavellan has Had Enough, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeniegalore/pseuds/queeniegalore
Summary: The first night back at Skyhold always follows a rhythm. Dorian learns to love growing older, and the Bull is just learning to love.





	Making Love on the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss_blue664](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_blue664/gifts).



> I was prompted by the lovely Miss_blue664 and I got so excited I kind of fulfilled two prompts at once! "I love Coming Home Shit - Like they been away for too long and have lots of catching up to do." AND "I'm a sucker for the boys doting on each other that can be just some simple i made you this things or did a thing for you, to trying something new that the other wanted in bed. HAVE FUN! <3" I DID have fun, and I hope you do too! 
> 
> Title from the song of the same name by The Woodlands
> 
> Speedy, thorough and helpful betas by jamathiel_bane and musicalemjay - thank you SO MUCH, I couldn't have done it without you both!

Dorian and the Iron Bull no longer fucked in the field.

Dorian would _like_ to say that this was because they were both professional adults with a job to do, but the _reality_ was that the last time they’d tried, they’d nearly burned down several tents, scorched a nug, and caused a camp wide Incident in the middle of Crestwood.

And yes, Dorian could hear that capital I when Lavellan reported back to the advisers. Cullen could too, judging by the immediate, brilliant red that suffused his face, his right hand flying to the back of his neck as if it were drawn there by a magnet.

“Maker’s _breath_ , man,” he stammered, and honestly. One would think he’d never lost control of himself in the heat of the moment and let loose a fireball or three.

Leliana, ever subtle, gave a polite, discreet cough that in no way hid her amusement. Bull, _never_ subtle, could not keep the smirk off his face. Lavellan, as usual, just looked like he wanted to slaughter the lot of them and go off to live with a herd of halla.

“Well,” Josie said, terribly and diplomatically preoccupied with scribbling away at her tablet. “Well. I trust that we’ve all learned our lesson.”

Funnily enough, they had.

~

“Hey, _I’m_ a professional.”

It was several months after the Incident. The argument, however, was not ready to die.

Upon the party’s return to Skyhold after a mad two week jaunt around the Hinterlands, Bull had promptly liberated the company books from an irritable Krem, retired to his room (which was, in fact, rather more _his-and-Dorian’s room_ these days), and was now arranging his writing tools neatly upon his desk. These consisted of: black ink, raven feathered pen, a ragged roll of blotting paper, and a very pretty little decorative shaker of sand. Dorian had brought the latter home for him after a shopping trip into Val Royeaux, it having caught his eye as he trailed along after Lavellan. It was made of brilliant pink dawnstone, traced in little gilt flowers, and held a small measure of the finest blotting pounce Dorian had ever come across. He’d thought it might make Bull smile, but Bull had surprised him by  treating it like something infinitely precious, like it had belonged to Koslun himself. Months later, it still made Dorian’s heart skip a little to see it set out so proudly on Bull’s desk.

“ _I’m_ the leader of a very well respected and successful mercenary company, I’ll have you know,” Bull went on now, pointing the feathered end of his pen at Dorian for emphasis. “I’m as professional as they come.”

“I fear that Lavellan is of a rather different opinion,” replied Dorian. He was freshly bathed, and clad as simply as Tevinter fashion and his own pride allowed in dark hide trousers - _minimal_ buckles, almost _no_ silverite - and a soft linen shirt. His hair was still damp, swept back from his face without the usual fuss, curling a little at the ends. It just got messed up with Bull anyway, on nights like these. He’d learned a long time ago not to waste the pomade.

“It wasn’t _his_ tent we almost set on fire,” Bull argued, a slight grin teasing one corner of his mouth. “Varric will one day learn to love us again. It was fine.”

“We keep rehashing this,” Dorian sighed, and peeked over Bull's shoulder. Bull had lovely handwriting. Dorian already knew this, knew not to be surprised by it, but it still _delighted_ him. He watched as Bull went over the wages, the expenses, tallying up figures that Krem had already finished with, _just in case_. Dorian didn’t think Bull had ever found something that was wrong, that needed changing or fixing, but it was his little ritual whenever he returned to Skyhold all the same. Check the books. Take reports. See to the men. No longer worry about correspondence from the Ben Hassrath, no, but some rituals were the better for changing.

Dorian adored him - impossibly, immutably.

“Requisitions will never love us again,” he added, the familiar call and response, and settled himself on Bull’s bed. He had a new book, deliciously Vinty and full of dark magic and arcane rituals and dire such and such. It was terribly dry, really, but one had to keep up appearances where one could. “Stores will never love us again.”

“I mean,” Bull said reasonably. “I really had thought we’d gotten the whole _flames of passion_ thing under control after the Drapes Incident.” More pointed capitalisation. “We weren’t to know.”

Dorian smiled to himself. Bull was leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide. There was a fresh scar healing across the length of his back, thin and red. His vitaar was hastily but thoroughly scrubbed off, and his armour oiled and cleaned and set on its battered old amour stand. His horns gleamed with fresh balm and his face was washed, but he hadn’t had a chance to go down to the baths proper yet. (“I splashed around in the stream earlier,” he grinned when Dorian made to complain. “I’m clean enough where I need to be.”)

“That night,” Dorian murmured, keeping his eyes on his book. “Hmmm. Wasn’t that the first time you-"

“The first time I used my tongue,” Bull finished, voice a low, low rumble that Dorian felt deep in his gut. “ _Yeah_.”

“Yes, well, maybe we _should_ have known better,” Dorian said archly, and flipped a page. He hadn’t taken in a word of it, and judging from his soft laugh, Bull could tell.

He flicked his gaze up, and caught Bull’s eye. Bull was smiling at him affectionately, a smudge of ink already on his cheek under his eyepatch, and his pen held loosely in one hand. Even just a few months ago, Dorian thought, they would have already been naked on the bed, desperately scrambling to get off like they’d never have another chance, like they expected it would all be ripped out from under them at any moment.

Dorian rather liked things better now.

“Finish your accounts,” he murmured, and turned back to his book. He knew that Bull could read the look of fondness - _adoration_ , _devotion_ \- on his own face. “And for the love of the Maker, take a bath before touching these lovely, clean sheets.”

Laughter.

In actuality, Bull didn’t even _use_ sand to dry his ink. Dorian had learned this after presenting his gift, much to his chagrin. It got everywhere and he couldn’t manage it without smudges - he much preferred blotting paper. But he faithfully set out Dorian’s gift every night and packed it up again anyway, giving it pride of place on his desk next to the lantern, where the flame could glint off the deep pink and gold and send sparkles over Bull’s page.

Oh, Qunari don’t love, Dorian had been taught.

He watched now out of the corner of his eye as Bull wrapped it, ever unused, in a scrap of velvet and tucked it carefully into its box, nestled up next to his pots of ink and his wooden quill case. He watched as the box was then set on its shelf next to a chipped cup of dried flowers and a little onyx dragonling statue. And he kept watching as Bull stood, kicked his chair back in under his desk, stretched tall and wide, and then casually dropped his trousers.

“Oh. Well, then.” Dorian shut his book with a snap, and added it to the untidy pile stacked precariously on his side of the bed. One could be rather easily swayed. “ _If_ you insist.”

He sat forward a little and reached for Bull, only for Bull to step neatly out of his way with a smirk.

“Uh uh,” he said. “Oh, no. The _sheets_ , Dorian.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips regardless. The Bull, naked, was a thing of glory. It was hard for one to maintain any sort of fresh-linen related principles in the face of all that... _that_.

“I rather think we can _blast_ the fucking sheets, Bull,” he murmured, and Bull widened his eye in exaggerated shock.

“Now isn’t too much _blasting_ what got us in this mess in the first place? No sex for two weeks, Dorian.”

Dorian settled back against the pillows and cocked a knee. “I seem to recall a handjob against a tree,” he mused. He’d been picking leaves and bark out of his hair for hours, and Bull had disrupted a bird nest with a horn. Lavellan’d taken one look at them and threatened to tattle to Varric, who was ever after salacious tales for whatever trash novel he was planning about their forbidden passion.

It had, of course, been worth it.

“Yes, well, _regardless_.” Sometimes, the Iron Bull liked to affect an exaggerated Tevinter accent. It was rather better than Dorian would like to admit. “One must, of course, think of the integrity of our bedsheets, Master Pavus. So, _if_ you don’t mind.” He dropped the accent, as well as a towel on the floor. “I’m gonna get clean before we get dirty.”

“Oh,” Dorian sighed, and waved a languid hand, watching Bull pick up a large ewer of water from the washstand. “If you must, I suppose.”

The Bull’s body was, after all this time, still a marvel.

Just miles upon miles of glistening silver skin, crisscrossed with scars, a roadmap to a life lived on the front line. Carved from muscle, with a satisfying layer of bulk, _thick_ and _big_ and _overwhelming_. Dorian still caught his breath, sometimes, at the sheer scale of him. Horns like something out of a fantasy, arms disproportionately long, dropping from shoulders like twin mountains, hands simply _huge_ , huge enough to crush a skull, yet gentle enough to cradle Dorian’s, to make him feel - _Maker_. Make him _feel_.

It was entirely ridiculous. Dorian had come to terms with it.

“You’re about to make a _mess_ , aren’t you.”

He aimed for dry, overshot and landed somewhere around heated.

Bull’s grin was nasty. “Oh, yeah,” he said, and tipped half the water over his head.

It created a small waterfall down that big, big body, rivulets running down the planes of his muscle, the heft of his chest and stomach, into the coarse, sparse hair leading down, down to that ridiculous, _egregious_ , magnificent -

“Hmm, eyes up, Pavus.” Bull voice was amused, and Dorian sighed.

“Oh, whatever for,” he murmured, but stroked his gaze back up anyway, the muscle and bulk of the Bull shimmering with wetness in the sparkling light of the lanterns, and met that knowing eye.

The Bull picked up a sponge, and a bar of scented, finely milled Orlesian soap, and raised his eyebrows. Dorian tugged at the laces of his shirt.

“I do hope,” he started, voice perhaps a little more breathless than one would have wished, as Bull lathered up the sponge, “that you’re not expecting a tip.” The scent of violets and elfroot filled the air, mingled with the rich, earthy scent of the Bull. Clean sweat and iron.

Bull looked fond, which wasn’t exactly what Dorian had been going for. “Always an answer for everything,” he said, as he started scrubbing. Dorian’s mouth went dry. “I wonder what it would take to shut you up?”

“Well. You know.”

Bull smirked again but remained, blessedly, silent as he put on a show. Under one arm, and then the next, thick lather dripping down his body. Over his chest, under his pecs where Dorian loved to nuzzle, licking and biting and driving Bull to distraction, down his stomach, down the thick vee of his groin. He crouched for his legs, lowering himself carefully with one hand on the washstand, in deference to his bad knee. Dorian smiled. Bull threw himself around like a maniac in the field, but Stitches was very strict in his instructions to take it easy where and when he could. Here, in their little room above the tavern, by the light of the fire and the lanterns, beneath Dorian’s watchful gaze, the Bull could now relax enough to be careful.

(He’d wrenched it terribly on their, oh, third or fourth night together, back in the _flames of passion_ days. Throwing Dorian around, up against a door or a wall or something, holding him there while they fucked and then _twisting_ to toss him onto the bed. Stitches had almost killed them both, placed Bull rather spitefully on bed rest, and Dorian had abandoned his library for days to lurk around Bull’s door, sniping at him and bringing him offerings of honey cakes and tea. These days, they took rather more care.)

Caution, Dorian mused, did not make any of it less hot. Muscles strained and bunched as Bull crouched, tendons stretching, thighs bulging, and Bull _winked_ at him as he rested an elbow just above one knee and reached in between his legs, scrubbing with an exaggerated thoroughness that was no less arousing for being ridiculous.

“Are you quite done?” Dorian asked tartly, sitting forward and unlacing his shirt one handed, letting it shrug over his shoulders to be abandoned down the side of the bed. Bull grinned, watching as he reached lower, and back. Too many bubbles to see exactly what he was doing, but Dorian didn’t need to. Could guess by the pump of his arm, the crude scrubbing motions sending heat down his spine to pool in his groin.

“I dunno, Kadan.” Bull stood, leaning heavily on the washstand, and cocked his hip. “You tell me.”

Dorian just bit his lip, gaze fixed, as Bull picked up the ewer and tipped the remaining water over his body to wash away the suds, sluicing a hand down towards his cock, on its way to hard now, rubbing his fingers through his pubic hair.

“Come over here.”

It was what Dorian had been waiting for.

He slipped to his knees easily, gracefully even, heedless of the wet floor. He kept his eyes up, head raised, as he shuffled forward, kept a faint smile on his face as Bull reached for him. Curled one hand in his hair immediately, and this was why Dorian didn’t _bother_ anymore, didn’t fuss with oil and pomade only for it to end up with Bull complaining of sticky fingers. A hand in his hair, then a fist, gripping and pulling his head back further, until his neck strained and his throat was bared and he was opened to whatever the Bull decided to do to him.

“So tell me, Kadan,” Bull rumbled, free hand coming up to cup Dorian’s cheek, swipe a thumb over his open mouth. “Am I clean enough?”

“Clean enough,” Dorian asked, licking his lips and, incidentally, the tip of Bull’s thumb, “for what?”

“For your delicate sensibilities.”

It was Dorian’s turn to smirk. “I think you’ll find, The Iron Bull, that they’re not so delicate as all that.”

“ _Kadan_ ,” Bull crooned, approving, and then he _pulled_ and Dorian found himself, finally, right where he wanted to be.

A splash in a stream, a quick rub down with some fancy Orlesian soap that smelled of violet and elfroot, it wasn’t enough to disguise the Bull’s scent. Dorian inhaled deeply, nose pressed to the seam of Bull’s thigh and groin, and moaned. It was thick, here, musky, and he tilted his head as much as Bull would let him to nuzzle at his balls, straining for more.

“Looking very pretty and proper up there on that bed. Got your _Malificarum Nastyshit_ by Lord Fancy Vintname. Even brought up some of that posh wine you’re always liberating from Lavellan’s cellars.” He shifted, pulled Dorian up until his mouth was pressed to the side of his cock, hardening further against Dorian’s lips. “But I think you look even prettier on your knees on this dirty floor, with my cock in your face and my scent in your nose.”

Dorian smiled. “I certainly know how to play to my strengths,” he murmured, lips moving over Bull’s shaft. “As do you.”

Bull hummed, tightened his fist. “Bit fuckin’ chatty though.”

The Bull was huge, everywhere. Dorian opened his mouth wide and dragged it up the underside of his cock, up until his lower lip caught on the ridge below the head and bent back. He thought of the picture he must make, blinking his eyes up at the Bull’s face, mouth obscene. Bull was starting to drool precome already, letting it drip down to pool on Dorian’s tongue. Dorian swallowed.

“Two weeks,” Bull sighed, and brought his free hand to his own balls heavy and full, cupping them before pushing them against Dorian’s face. “Dorian, tell me what you want.”

“I’m sure you have plans,” Dorian whispered. Bull tasted like he smelled - thick, rich. He licked his lips again, licked at Bull. “I’m sure I’d be amenable to whatever they are.”

“I’m a man of simple pleasures,” Bull said, and Dorian barely had time to scoff before he was abruptly yanked back, and then tugged, still on his knees, over to the bed.

“Oh yes, very simple. The finest soap from Val Royeaux, the finest candies from Antiva-”

“And the finest mages from Tevinter,” Bull finished, and for a moment they grinned at each other, Dorian feeling his eyes crinkle helplessly. Oh, how’d they’d tried to stay in character to start, tried to keep everything very serious and sexy and suitably dramatic, like the ridiculous faff Varric wrote for Cassandra. Bull probably could have kept that up forever, if Dorian had wanted him to, except one day in the middle of having his ass spanked for some made up offense, Dorian had wriggled away, slid to the floor and just laughed until he _cried_. Bull, after ascertaining that Dorian wasn’t in the middle of some kind of psychotic break, had joined him, chuckling ruefully, both of them as naked as the day they were born.  And after, as soon as they’d realised the mood wasn’t broken, they’d fucked right there on the floor. Still giggling, Bull still occasionally slapping Dorian’s ass. Still _good_.

Sex, Dorian was learning, could be _fun_. It could be dirty and depraved, passionate and destructive, tender and soft… it could be whatever they pleased.

And after two weeks without, traipsing around in the woods and eating roast nug and trying to sneak in a hurried handjob while the rest of the camp all pretended to be oblivious, it could be necessary, and filthy and - Well.

Sweet _Maker_ Dorian wanted him. He was hard and aching, desire pooling between his legs, need making his skin tight, his blood sizzle.

“I do hate to rush you,” he said, sitting back on his heels as Bull settled on the bed, pressing his hips up a touch, just enough that his erection was obvious as it strained against his trousers. “But I assume you _did_ have plans for tonight? Apart from dragging me around your dirty floor, of course.”

Bull leaned back, legs open, and lifted one heel to set on the edge of the bed, opening himself up to Dorian. Dorian started to get the idea.

“I mean I didn’t use all that soap for nothing,” Bull said, and the heat was back in his voice, in his eye. Dorian flushed, and hummed thoughtfully, setting both his hands on Bull’s thick thighs and pushing.

“You smell like violets,” he said, “and filth.”

Bull grinned at him. “Yeah? You like it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I bet I taste even better.”

Dorian winked. He liked to think he pulled it off better than the Bull. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

He did. Lips eager, tongue searching, licking, pushing. The Bull's smell and taste and heat immediately overwhelming, intoxicating and addictive. 

Dorian had been surprised almost, by how much he enjoyed this, this act in particular. He was not a passive bed partner, but in his experience he was the kind of person who had things done _to_ them, rather than one who did the doing. He’d assumed that the same would be true of his dalliances with Bull, that his job would be to look very handsome while being Bull’s plaything. Laying back on silk sheets and so on, letting Bull play the beastly conqueror while Dorian lived up to his spoiled Tevinter prince reputation.

And that was fun maybe once or twice, certainly it could be amusing to _play_ at that, but Bull had ways of drawing him out, tempting him into things he’d never dreamed of - Well, no, that was inaccurate. He’d dreamed of a lot, after all, but maybe never dreamed that he’d get to _live_ those dreams.

And yet. There he was, licking up into the Bull, up his thighs, up into the depths of him, the _heat_. Opening him on his hands and lips and tongue, tasting the salt and the musk. Remnants of soap and sweat, and Dorian just _inhaled_ him, ate him with a passion that in earlier days might have resulted in something being set on fire. Above him Bull groaned, his hips rocking down and his hand back in Dorian’s hair, hanging on for dear life.

“Fuck, _fuck_ Kadan, you’re so fucking good at this,” he grunted, heel slipping on the bed as Dorian pushed _in_. “Wish I could have this all the time, have you like this-"

Dorian didn’t reply, couldn’t. He wondered if he could bring Bull to completion like this, wondered what that would be like, the power of it. Suddenly, it was imperative. He reached up blindly and scrabbled for the Bull’s hand, placing it on Bull’s cock until he got the idea. Held it there as Bull started pumping, working himself quick and hard like Dorian imagined he did to himself when he was alone. And Dorian kept licking, pushing his tongue in as far as it would go, added a finger to feel around Bull’s entrance, breaching him as Bull let out a gasp like he’d been _punched_.

“Kadan, Dorian, fuck _yes_ ,” he breathed, panting like the beast Dorian used to accuse him of being. “Oh shit, you’re gonna make me come like this, you want that?”

Asking Dorian what he wanted at a time like this. This man. _This man_.

“ _Yes_.” Doran pressed the word into Bull’s skin, into the deepest part of him. “Bull, yes.”

Yes, Dorian wanted that. To give, and give, and keep giving to the Bull. Shower him with ridiculous gifts, drown him in pleasure, kneel at his feet and offer up his heart. Qunari didn’t love, but Bull was no _longer_ a Qunari. The way the word _kadan_ fell from his lips encompassed more than the small, inadequate, _feeble_ human concept of love ever had for Dorian.

What they had was a tent smouldering in the rain, an unused trinket given pride of place on a neat, utilitarian desk, and a stack of books teetering at the side of a shared bed. It was laughter, and it was an argument that had gone on for months without end, and now, right now, it was Dorian’s tongue licking into Bull while Bull brought himself off with a deep, satisfied grunt, come splattering up his stomach and dripping down his sides to stain the sheets.

Dorian pulled back in time to see the last of it, finger still pressing and pumping as the Bull let all his tension go, melting back into the bed with a sigh. His hand was still softly squeezing and releasing his cock, thumb running up the underside to milk out the last of his spend as Dorian stared, almost _dizzy_ with arousal.

“ _Amatus_ ,” he whispered. “Yes, this, give me… _Totus meus es_.” He swiped his fingers through the mess and raised his hand to his mouth, surveyed the Bull stretched out before him, the _mountain_ of him. He didn’t have the words in any language to describe what this was, what they meant.

He licked his fingers, Bull’s taste heavy on his tongue. There was a universe of want in the space between them. It had been terrifying, once. “ _Amor verbum minus_.” He ran a hand up Bull’s chest, to his heart. “Oh, _Bull_.”

Bull laughed breathlessly, and brought a hand up to his face, hiding his eye for a moment. “You talking dirty to me, Vint?” he asked, voice thick.

Dorian smiled indulgently. “If you like,” he said. Bull knew more Tevene than he let on, Dorian suspected. But Dorian could give him this moment. Maker knew Dorian still needed time, on occasion, to hide from the depth of feeling between them.

Besides, Dorian had more pressing things to attend to.

“But Tevene is not suited to dirty talk,” he added, draping himself over the Bull’s body, feeling his come warm and slick and messy between them. “Let me try again in Trade.”

“Kadan, you could say whatever you damn wanted right now.” Bull slipped a hand down the back of Dorian’s trousers - kaffas, why was he still wearing _trousers_? - and squeezed. “Yeah, sure, keep talking dirty to me.”

Dorian leaned up, planting his hand back on the massive chest beneath him for balance, and took the tip of Bull’s pointed ear between his teeth. It twitched.

“If you don’t make me come soon,” he said, rolling his hips down against Bull’s stomach, “I shall bind your hands, take care of it myself, and then retire to the library with my Lord Maleficar and my Marinus Estate vintage and _leave you here_ -”

He had not even finished before the Bull was moving, growling as he rolled them and pinned Dorian to the mattress, bearing down with his big, naked, come-and-sweat covered body, grinding into him with intent. Dorian closed his eyes, let his mouth hang open, let Bull -

“How attached are you to these trousers, Vint?”

Dorian’s eyes snapped open. “Bull, no.”

Once, Bull wouldn’t have asked.

But only once.

“Oh? So you don’t want me to rip them off you? Tear them at the seams, shred them like tissue to get at you, leave them in rags around your thighs, leave you open to me…” Bull flexed his arm to show he could, that the words weren’t empty. Dorian didn’t need the reminder, but he appreciated the show of strength, the way it made his heat race and his throat tighten.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ you brute, just fucking make me _come_ , I don’t _care_.”

“You say that now…” But Bull was shoving his hand down the back of Dorian’s pants again, his other gathering up Dorian’s wrists and holding them above his head. Dorian writhed, tugged just for the feel of it, just for the knowledge that without his watchword he wasn’t going anywhere. Bull looked on knowingly, waited until he was still, and then slipped a finger between Dorian’s cheeks to press, insistent and ungentle, against his hole.

“Yes, _yes_ , _kaffas_ Bull!”

It was hot in Bull’s room, warm between them, and Dorian glistened with a light sheen of sweat. Bull used nothing else as he rubbed, not breaching Dorian, not yet, just pressing and circling - playing with him, really, a sweet torment. Dorian rocked down against him, cock hard and trapped against the laces of his trousers and fuck, maybe Bull _could_ just rip them off and damn the consequences.

“Pretty Vint, eager Vint,” Bull cooed. The very very tip of his wide, blunt finger pushed in and _held_. Dorian yelped. He didn’t know whether he wanted to scramble away - too much, too big, too dry - or pump his hips back into it, _take_ it, take his pleasure through the burn.

“I... _Bull_ …”

“Gonna make you ruin these anyway,” Bull mused, and pressed a thigh against Dorian’s trapped cock, flexed it like he had his arm so Dorian could feel the muscles jump. “Gonna fill them with come for me, aren’t you Vint? You know I’ll be able to smell it no matter how much you wash them, the smell of you stained into the hide, the smell of the way you fucking _lost_ it for me.”

He pressed that finger in another half an inch, more a stretch than anything, slipping through the sweat now _pouring_ from Dorian’s skin.

“Yes, Amatus, yes, _fuck_ me.” Dorian was almost sobbing, and he knew what he wanted now, pressing back against the pressure, feeling it breach him still further, fucking himself on Bull’s hand and then back up against his leg. “Fuck me, take me, _venhedis-_ ”

His orgasm, when it came, was bright and sharp and sudden, almost overwhelming. All their time together and he could never get used to _this_ , the way the Bull could play his body like a harp, torment and torture him with pleasure until he was begging for it to never end in the same breath as he begged for release. And that release, streaking through his body like lightning, sparking to the Bull’s touch, was inevitably explosive.

He cried out, scored lines down Bull’s neck and shoulders with his nails, threw his head back against the pillow and felt tears fill his eyes and overflow, like his orgasm overflowing from his body and spilling against the Bull. Who held him, surrounded and invaded him, a mountain for Dorian to shake himself against until there was nothing left but the sound of his breath in the still night air, and the heave of their chests, their bodies slick with sweat and the rapid, relentless beating of their hearts.

He had not, he was pleased to note through his foggy, post-orgasm haze, set anything on fire this time.

“You alright, kadan?”

Bull’s voice was concerned and a little amused, as he bent to nuzzle Doria's hair and allowed him to wrap heavy, languorous arms around his neck.

“Hmm?”

“Got real hot there at the end is all,” Bull said mildly, and easily slipped his finger free, rubbing it soothingly over Dorian’s entrance a few times, making him twitch and gasp with over-sensitivity, before withdrawing. “And not just in the usual way.”

“I’m always hot,” Dorian agreed, and wiggled his fingers, brushing them against Bull’s scalp. They _were_ warm, his whole body was warm, dripping with sweat and tingling slightly with the remnants of barely suppressed magic. The air smelled of smoke and sex, and would, he thought, for some time.

“That you are,” Bull said indulgently, and ducked his head for a kiss, which Dorian gave up easily. Bull, who normally ran over-warm, was cool against his flushed skin, and Dorian sighed with contentment and relief.

They had had a long day today, and would have a long day tomorrow. Sleep called, though he half wanted to stay trading lazy kisses with Bull for another hour, maybe share some wine, maybe do it all again. Dorian remembered a time when a much younger man could stay up all night indulging and then be ready to go, fresh as a daisy, at first light.

He missed that man, but only rarely.

“We should sleep,” he murmured into Bull’s lips, tinged with regret. “Lavellan will be a slave driver in the morning.”

Bull pulled back with a raised eyebrow. “Are you allowed to make slave driver jokes, Vint?” he asked, through a poorly hidden smile.

Dorian hit him.

“ _Beast_ ,” he said, full of mock affront. His eyelids were heavy, but he’d find some way to pay Bull back for that - in the morning, oh if he remembered, if he still cared. “ _Brute_.”

“Don’t fall asleep, kadan.” Bull rolled over, heaved himself up and laughed as Dorian snuggled into the bed, then groaned as he remembered the state of himself. “Want some help with that?”

Dorian halfheartedly pushed at his trousers, sticky and disgusting, now, the novelty of coming in his smalls like a boy having worn off _rather_ swiftly.

“This _is_ your fault,” he sighed, lifting his hips as Bull tugged at his waistband. “Clean up your mess, amatus.”

“Tama always did tell me to take care of my things,” Bull said softly and Dorian cracked an eyelid to meet his gaze.

A world of want between them. A _universe_. They used to set things on fire with their passion, but now the flames ran deeper, hotter.

They were home, and they were together, and everything between them had changed - but only for the better. Always for the better.

They’d never said _I love you._

They said _I love you_ in everything they did.

“Yes, well.” Dorian reached out and took the wet cloth Bull offered him. It smelled of violets. “So does Vivienne, and how often do you listen to her?”

And Bull laughed, and flicked water at him, and the mountain hummed with vitality around them as the life they were building - fragile and finite as it may be - shone brighter and burned hotter, a lantern held up in the dark.

Or perhaps a flame, glinting off something small, and precious, and beautiful.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Totus meus es - you are all mine
> 
> Amor verbum minus - love is too small a word


End file.
